The Story
by NightValeisnotonfire
Summary: In Fangirl, Cather and Nick started writing a story, as a collab, and I'm going to try to finish it. No smut (at least not of characters from Fangirl, sorry d:) First try writing on here, fav if you want more of this story (: XO- Renny (Yes, with an R).


She's standing in the parking lot. And she's standing under a streetlight. And her hair's so blonde, it's flashing at you. It's burning out your retinas one fucking cone at a time. She leans forward and grabs your T-shirt. And she's standing on tiptoe now. She's reaching for you. She smells like black tea and American Spirits - and when her mouth hits your ear, you wonder if she remembers your name.

"Please don't tell Mom," she giggles.

"Which part should I leave out?" you ask her. "The hair? Or the stupid hipster cigarettes?"

She pulls meanly at your T-shirt, and you shove her back like she's twelve. And she practically is - she's so young. And you're so tired. And what is Dave going to think if you walk out on your first date to take care of your stupid, stupidly blonde, little sister.

"You suck, Nick," she says. And she's reeling. She's swaying under the streetlights.

She giggles again, and you can see her eyes clouding over, as though she's losing herself in a different world.

 _Crap,_ you think to yourself, _I don't think this is just alcohol._

Her bleached hair shines into your slightly hungover eyes, and you put your arm under her shoulders. Your date will have to wait, your sister needs you, and you can't leave her.

Her giggly demeanor changes as soon as you touch her, and she whispers raspily, "When you go to college, take me with you. Don't leave me here. Alone."

You feel like she just punched you in the gut, and your throat gets dry and tight. A tear slips out and then you can tell she's passed out. You reach your other arm down, and pick her up with one arm under her knees and the other holding up her back and head. She's too light, you know she should weigh more. And you whisper to her, choking on tears, "You're never alone. That's the whole fucking point of having siblings."

You pause to open the back door of the borrowed beat up Minivan and lay her down across the back seat.

"I promised I wouldn't leave you, didn't I?" you say, more to yourself than your passed out sister. And you really do wonder if you really did ever promise that. It seems like too long ago, like it was a line from a once-loved movie that you memorized script of.

 _The Mom, who has valiantly fought cancer, for her 10-year-old son and 5-year-old daughter, can tell it's the end. She pulls her son towards her, and says, "My brave, brave boy…_

But no. You know it was real because it wasn't like that at all. Well it was, but at the same time, it wasn't at all. The media will make you think cancer is this glitzy thing. Sad, of course, but noble and shiny. And they know that they're going to die and the cry and they tell everyone in their family that they love them and then fall asleep and die peacefully.

You thought that too, because you watched all these reality T.V. shows on it, like it was your homework. Your fucking job to be prepared for your mother's death. And you tried. Yet, you weren't. She had brain cancer and you weren't. Weren't prepared, weren't responsible, weren't accepting, weren't patient, weren't helpful. What you were was ten. You were a ten-year-old boy. And you were dealt an unfair life.

Your mom, in the end, was just a woman. A woman with a tumor in the frontal lobe of her brain, who wasn't your mom. Your mom was a brunette with bright green eyes that smelled like coffee grounds and dirt and liked to walk in the woods with a golden retriever, an infant girl in a backpack, and a little boy. Your mom had smile creases and laughed at any joke you made.

Tumor-woman had no hair and gray foggy eyes, and she smelled like cleaning spray and hospital and sometimes she smelled like sweat, right before they took her to bathe. She liked to give away golden retrievers that she claimed couldn't be taken care of, eat Jell-O, and stare at the ceiling. She had wrinkles, and if you were ever in a good enough mood around her to make a joke, she would stare at you blankly and ask what that meant. And you would try to explain. And she would smile faintly because she knew it was supposed to be funny, but she didn't know why. And you could see the guilt hiding behind her faded green eyes, but she fell asleep before she ever felt too guilty. And before you ever felt too guilty for just being an extra. An extra thing she had to deal with. And you were mad that she could get so broken because she was supposed to be the stable one. And you were mad at yourself because you knew, even though you were ten, that none of this was her fault.

You weren't a lot of things, but you were young, and you were unlucky.

And Kateryn was too young to fully understand, but just old enough to understand something was happening. Something bad.

Your family was broken.


End file.
